


Caeci Caecos Ducentes

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deviates From Canon, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Love Triangles, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Mary is AGRA, Mary is not Moran, Multi, Multiple Pov, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 03, baby doesnt exist, but not as we know it, m/m/f
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“…You take my gun and expect me to shake hands with you?"<br/>She shrugs.<br/>“I guess it’s only fair you get to meet me before you die. I mean, you did marry me.”</p><p> <br/>Mary only seems innocent, to return to a life she never left behind. John pretends to forgive, to forget- all because of a friend's plea.<br/>In all this, Sherlock is... indifferent.<br/>And god knows about the others.</p><p>"The blind are led by the blind- leaders are no more knowledgeable than the ones they lead."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock- Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callasandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callasandra/gifts).



The rain catches the city off-guard, for once. The downpour breaks through the summer heat, drowning us in infinity. John is smiling in the twilight dusk of the evening, as I stand there, mesmerized yet again by his laugh. He turns to me, gaze questioning, eyes burning. 

The rain falls from a lilac sky, the same color of the bridesmaids' dresses. John doesn't seem to notice. I do, and I don't relish the memory. The water is cool as it drips from the roof. I close my eyes.

He says my name, repeats it several times, each with a slightly different intonation- each one divergent from the rest. I know them, hell, I've memorized them, etched them over and over in my head.

"Sherlock"  

I open my eyes, and he’s standing close to me, still focused on the sudden rain and fading sun. Turning my head is a luxury not many people deserve. I turn my head towards him, and the world spins.

If I am the sun, John is not my conductor of light. He is my moon, my counterpart, reflecting my shine onto the ones who need it, those afraid of the dark. Everything gravitates towards him like the sea flows with the tides.

Because it's you, John Watson, it's always him, every goddamn time, when I get shot at, it's him, when I die, it's him, but heavens help me if I'd ever choose it a different way. Without, I'd be nothing.

I don't say any of this. He continues to stare at me with that gaze the color of the evening sky, and I continue to pretend. 

We both continue to pretend.

There is a noise behind us, and John loses interest in me. Mary dazzles with a bright smile, like a glass diamond… impressive, but fake.

The sky rumbles, twisting into shades of blue, different hues to his eyes, more like Mary's.

If I am the sun, John, the moon, and then Mary is a supernova… a dying star, shining brightly, with a pull that would crush any resistance. She is a death trap. She's inescapable.

He continues to pretend, while I mourn inside. 

Mary crosses the terrace, soft words spilling from a sharp mouth. She's still smiling. Why is she smiling?

Realization hits me. She's smiling because she's won, yet again, like every time before. Because whatever happens, she’ll always be the first choice, like I'd always choose John. If I had to choose between losing him and death, I'd kill myself.

Isn't that enough? Didn't I do that already?

I decide, Mary walks like a cat; slowly, deliberately, nowhere to be and nowhere to go, except that it's not.

It is all planned out, every move calculated.

Oh, John. John Hamish Watson. 

Sherlock. William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Some of us have a flair for drama, it would seem. If I ever said that, it would make John laugh and say something along the lines of 'Especially you.’, only I would never say that to John.

 Mary is one of those people too. He does know. He chose her.

A.G.R.A.

Four initials… four names.

If I was desperate, I would ask Mycroft to define them; to tell me everything.

Only I'm afraid, John, afraid of what I would find.

She's grinning again, eyes narrowing. It's a genuine smile, but something inside her is pulled taught, like a bowstring without an arrow.

The sky flashes with a burst of white. Images of teeth and snow come to mind.

Does he still remember, the time ‘Before’, when we would return at quarter to dawn and stand giggling against the wall? The time ‘Before her’, when John would try to feed me while I tried to think? Before, when we were both free, and happy, and we had just found each other and it was wonderful. Before, when he shot a man for me?

What I wouldn't do to relive one of those moments again. I'd sell my soul, I'd sell my heart.

I do have one. Not that it hasn't been stepped on before. Unintentionally, I hope.

Rooftops have bad memories for me.

Mary murmurs something in John’s ear. I close my eyes.

If the name wasn't already taken by a certain Miss Adler, I'd call Mary 'The Woman'. That's all she is to me, the woman who picked up the pieces I had left behind and remolded them into something different, someone different.

I didn't mean to break you, John.

Lightening illuminates the darkness. Mary jumps slightly at the sudden flash. John doesn't. War took that instinct away from him. Loud bangs and lights don't make me flinch anymore either, not after my-

Suicide. That’s what John calls it. He chokes the words out as if they hurt. I didn’t imagine that they would, but evidently I was wrong. It was the worst mistake I ever made in my life, trusting Molly when I should’ve trusted the only person in the world who accepted me for who I was- who I am.

I wonder if that's a bad thing.

 Mary bites her lip; he’s still facing away from me. I want to shake John by the shoulders, tell him to stop it. To stop being this person.

Only once, in a corridor of a disused house, Mary showed her true colours.

Even John would remember the murderous look in her eye.

 

I look back over my shoulder as I leave. John stares after me, about to say something or move towards me. Mary sees, and presses her palm to John’s chest, stopping him in his tracks.

Soon, they disappear into the red glare of the sunset as I climb down the ladder back into the restaurant.

What we could've had was a sweeter dream than death.

 

 


	2. John- Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey people of AO3! This is my first beta'd work, and although I have quite a few chapters already written, expect updates weekly (or more).
> 
> Feel free to leave me plot/character POV suggestions, and I shall try my best to supply.  
> Thanks,  
> not_a_baby_unicorn

I stand over the city, which looks like it’s about to burst into flames. Next to me, the woman, that I say I love, laughs. It’s a cruel laugh, a triumphant laugh. It makes me sick.

Instead, I turn my head as dark grey material whirls, and he’s gone, down the staircase. Mary’s eyes flicker. Her gaze is predatory. Sharp. She presses her body against mine.

I know what you’re thinking, she hisses softly. I recoil as if her embrace burned. Yet again, she smiles like a viper, and curls her head under my chin. I try not to show signs of disgust.

Another flash of lightening, bright and dangerous, tears across the darkened sky. I’m torn between casting myself off the roof, and into the arms of the night; or being hung by the noose I tied myself. I tear myself away from Mary, moving to stand on the edge.

The sky changes hues, the colors of despair its palette, this time to lilac. Lilac, the color of first love; the color of mourning. The storm is coming to an end, shaking itself of the water droplets like a dog coming out of the rain. Sherlock always liked dogs, although I don’t remember him ever mentioning that to me. I guess his deduction skills rubbed off on me. Funny, that…

After so long apart.

Mary skirts around me like a shadow. She fills me with dread.

A hand appears out of thin air, grabbing my shoulder from behind. I’m holding my gun, finger on the trigger, only to realize I’m facing my wife. She isn’t smiling any more. I put my arms down, tucking the gun into my belt. Secure. Out of sight.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. You startled me.”

Mary’s eyes are unblinking, and dark. They’re like black holes in her face. She reaches out towards me again, calmly, collectedly. Her mouth opens, and her words are like sugar coated poison.

“Give me your gun.”

She must be mad.

“Mary, I am not going to give you the weapon I’ve carried since day one in Afghanistan. Forget it.”

 

My voice sounds hollow. It sticks in my throat. Mary licks her lips slowly, or maybe I’m the one who’s seeing the world in slow motion. She tilts her head.

“You don’t trust me. “

 

She voices my exact thoughts. I’ve been caught in the act. I swallow.

“I never said that”, I lie through my teeth. 

 

The presence of the edge of the rooftop is becoming gradually more alarming. I’m facing away from it. It would take her one movement to throw me off balance. But she carries on the game.

 

“You lend your gun to Sherlock.”

 

Her body tenses, language changed. Body language is like any other tongue; some people are multilingual, able to move fluidly from person to person, able to read anyone’s intentions from the way they hold their head. Other individuals…not so much, they are barely capable of understanding their own.

 I try to keep my voice even. My mouth is dry. My gun is inches from my hand, just touching the small of my back. 

“That’s…that’s different.”

She turns towards me. It strikes me how similar we must look to people in films, in old, westerns, about to duel. Her language changes yet again. She’s like a loaded rifle, a grenade with the safety catch off.

 

“Give. Me. The. Gun.”

 

Her hand is outstretched, taught, like an uncoiled spring. The cold of the gun seems to burn colder as her eyes travel past my mid-body, to my waist. If she were looking at me with tender eyes, I would call her gaze passionate.

Instead, it’s bloodthirsty. Subconsciously I wonder if she’s a vampire, but I dismiss the idea as ridiculous. I would prefer it if she were a vampire. She’d be easier to put in the grave.

 

She moves suddenly. She’s a cobra. She’s a tigress. She’s ice and fire simultaneously, a natural disaster.  She’s something you would find in your nightmares and under your bed. 

She’s not my wife.

I repeat those last few words in my head like a mantra, as if they’d come true if I wished it hard enough. What was I thinking? 

If only Sherlock were there when we met.

It was a relatively normal day- as normal as it got after his… suicide. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, ice cream vans played their tinkly tunes while driving down the street. I was yet again contemplating shooting myself through the roof of my mouth.

 In a very twisted way she did turn my life around. I’m pretty sure if Mary didn’t show up I wouldn’t have made it through those two years. I would have been another one of the people who ended up with Molly, down in the morgue of Bart’s. An interesting case of what PTSD can do to a human, they would say. They would inspect me. But they would be seeing, not observing, as Sherlock used to say. They would know only what my files would tell them. They wouldn’t know about my childhood, why I decided to join the army, why my sister is an alcoholic; they would all be just so goddamn stupid. 

Some days, I used to be grateful for Mary. 

Other days, I wondered if I actually had the courage to do it. If I had the courage to let Sherlock’s name be left scratched out, spat on and treated like dirt. If I would be able to leave the world, my last thoughts being that I’d failed my-

-and I’m thrown back to reality, to her, and me, on the rooftop of a building she suggested early this morning, just after breakfast. Time is relative again. 

I close my eyes. I open them, only to notice every miniscule detail about the woman I married. Her neck muscles are taught, her stride is wide, and her eyes are fixed on me. I’m a deer caught in headlights. I’m waiting for the inevitable, even though I’m the one holding the gun.

Ah yes,…the gun. Her fingers flex, and for a moment I’m tempted to laugh. Our ‘Marriage’ has been ridiculous, every second of it. Since just a few days after the wedding, we’ve been skirting around each other, the days of silence, the loveless sex.  However, for whatever reason, we still pretend to be the perfect couple.  

If asked, I’d answer that sure, I love Mary.

But this woman in front of me is not Mary.

Her eyes glint, in the dying light of the day. With the obsidian clouds behind her, she’s bathed in an almost otherworldly glow, like some sort of dark angel, and a fallen one at that. She speaks softly, her lips moving gently, eyes cast downwards. She closes her eyes. 

At that moment, anyone would’ve agreed that she was beautiful. Only her words weren’t.

“I promised to keep you out of this, but it seems you don’t like to play by the rules” 

She speaks as if every word was made of glass; any sudden movement could crush the thin barrier between her and the person she defended with the lives of others. 

“I’m- I’m sorry.”  I apologize for nothing and everything at the same time. Only I’m lying again. Her gaze penetrates me, shreds me to pieces, she looks at me like an interesting case.

Sherlock had a very similar gaze, only his had a different intention. His was to learn, to find knowledge, to expand the array of human intelligence.

Mary’s only seeks to destroy.

She moves forward and I step backward, forgetting about the drop behind me. Her arms reach around my waist, and I’m powerless to stop her. If I struggled, maybe she would. Maybe she would throw me into the traffic below.

“You didn’t think I suggested this place out of sheer boredom, did you?” She sneers, hand on hip and gun aimed. She looks like someone who could kill without putting much, if any, thought into it. 

The mask has dropped, I realize. Her accent has changed, her posture- she’s just like an actor coming out of a role. She spins the gun round her finger with complete ease, as if she grew up around weaponry.

I swallow before answering.

“I know who you are”

She grins, eyes shining.

“No you don’t. You threw your only chance of finding out into a fireplace.”

“Oh yes I do, Aleksandra.”

She freezes, smile melting away into first confusion, then anger. She tips her head to the side.

And then she laughs.

I’m standing on the edge of a roof, pressed against the edge of the railings, and she’s laughing.

She stops abruptly, and extends her hand, towards me.

“Aleksandra Galina Rozalin Anasenko”

“…You take my gun and expect me to shake hands with you?”

She shrugs.

“I guess it’s only fair you get to meet me before you die. I mean, you did marry me.”

Her words hit me, and are more painful, than the butt of the gun that glances off my temple.

I stumble against the railing, and collapse on the rooftop, my consciousness fading out, as everything turns black.  Ebbing away like blood from a wound.

 


	3. Mary- Part 1

 

The phone is ringing again, for the third time in ten minutes.

It’s almost like they don’t trust me anymore. Jeez, talk about being afraid of a little power. Honestly.

The ringing stops. They’ll call me again soon enough, but right now, I need coffee, cigarettes and some duct tape. All items I can get vaguely in the same place, so I set off in the direction of the nearest shop.

I pass about three before I settle on one with a decent hygiene rating and instant coffee.

My phone rings again.

Damn it. Seb must _really_ want something if he’s so persistent. Or Jim’s gotten into a fix and needs an extra pair of hands- either way, not a good time to ignore.

“Hey Allie”

It’s Seb on the line, but he sounds relaxed. Nothing wrong, then. All clear.

“Hey Tiger. What’d ya need from me? I’m busy with my husband.”

“How come you didn’t pick up before? I’ve been calling and calling. It’s not fair sometimes, y’know. I always pick up.”

“I quite like my ringtone.”

He sighs before continuing. I move along the queue, everything I need in my hands, phone leaning on my shoulder. The cashier looks bored with his job. He’s painfully, painfully slow.

“Sure you do. Listen, about John… Jim’s changed his mind.” He sounds frightened for a second. “He’s still alive, right? You haven’t done anything yet?”

“Knocked him out, other than that, I’ve been acting according to plan. Rooftop? Check. No emergency escape routes check. Sherlock out of the way? Check.”

“Wow. I sure have trained you well” I smile at the memory. The cashier finally scans the final item, a mild look of horror on his face. Note to self: do not discuss possible murder plans in front of normal people.

Sebastian clears his throat.

“Listen, _koshka,_ did he read the USB? Because if he did, that may cause us some problems. At least plan B would need to be used.”

I can’t believe him. Who in their right minds puts real information on a memory stick and calls themselves a pro?

“Sebastian Moran, you did not put all my real info on that piece of junk.”

“Aleksandra Anasenko, I did put all your real info on that piece of junk.”

“You’re an idiot Sebastian; does anyone ever tell you that?”

I imagine him smiling and for a moment I forget about my anger.

“Believe it or not, but all the time.”

“Well then you’d better get used to it. He most definitely did read it.”

“Shit.” He sounds genuinely concerned. “I thought he threw it into the fireplace?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Turns out we underestimated them.”

“Wait.” Sebastian pauses. Someone else is also talking. “Give me a second.”

“Sure thing, kitty cat.”

As I wait for him to stop shouting orders in what sounds like Spanish at someone in the background, I pay the (still) horrified cashier and exit the shop.

I always loved summer evenings. Back when I used to travel on a day-to-day basis, I never really appreciated any of the sights or places. I was always too busy.

But in the evenings, I usually had no ‘work’- I used to spend them pretending I was a tourist, another pretty lady on holiday in an exotic country, sipping some concoction of regional wonders and giggling to boot.

It starts to rain again. Sebastian is still yelling, this time in what seems to be Portuguese.

The drops land heavily, flattening the parched flowers in the window boxes as I pass them.

 I begin to remember an evening very much like this, only I was on the other side of the globe.

It was the evening two charming men entered my life and changed it into something wicked, in all meanings of the word.

It was a sweaty, damp evening. Storm clouds hung low in the sky and the heat was stifling. Mosquitos flocked near to brimming restaurants, awaiting a feast. Just like the blood-sucking, money-grabbing guests, the mosquitoes were restless. A storm was brewing.

The table was relatively large, but the guests gravitated towards a certain Lord Adair. I, on the other hand, strayed from the crowd and sat opposite. Lord Adair was in his late forties, balding slightly, and on holiday in India, just days before the monsoon season. He also happened to be filthy rich, and hosting this particular event.

That night, he was going to die. I was the one who was going to kill him.

It started off as a solo mission, a task I had to complete for my benefits. He was rich, but I didn’t want to do it for money.

I wanted revenge. I sat by his side, and laughed along with twenty or so bemused guests at something he had just said, planning in what way it would be quickest to dispose of him.

What I didn’t take into consideration, however, was the fact that I wasn’t the only one intent on vengeance.

Oh no. That evening, as I slipped into Lord Adair’s bedroom, I found myself in the company of the infamous duo- Moran and Moriarty, who were just as shocked as I was to find-

“Allie?”

Right. Sebastian.

“What’s that, _kotik_?”

“I’m back. The boss apparently sent me to get Sherlock, only that nobody around this place ever tells me things. I thought you said he was sorted?”

“Seb, I only said I had John Watson with me. Well, not with me per se, more like in the basement of our agreed meeting place. I did text Sherlock, though.”

Moran swears again.

“I’ll meet you on Bond Street in ten.”

I grin. “Make it five.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _________________________________________________________________________________  
> Some translations:  
> koshka: Russian for female cat.  
> kotik: Russian for male cat, kitty.


	4. A Collection Of Texts Intercepted By The British Government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The government is all-seeing. It hears all. It feels all. It knows...most things.

_[The Archive records the following text messages to have been intercepted from someone to whom we shall refer to as Echo to fit our Privacy Policy guidelines.]_

_Subject Echo used their phone exactly three times during the space of 31 days. On all three occasions, the same number was dialed, followed by texts being sent to another five different numbers._

_These records have been kept strictly confidential, and shall remain so. The security of our citizens cannot be endangered._

_And although the content of these may seem innocent, the simple skill known as ‘inference’ may tell you more than you wish to know. Skip code is a very important variable to consider._

_Go through these files at your own risk._

_Date 1- 02/01/15, 13:43_

Kotik,

I know we just spoke on the phone, but I need to let you know that I won’t be available for the next two weeks as my husband and I are going on holiday! It will be so nice to relax at our beautiful cottage in Hampshire :D

If you wish to join us, the address is as I told you when I called. You know what to do.

See you soon, my pretty kitten.

 

_13:47_

I am happy! Wait, that was at lunchtime. Perfect Oxford night. That street car racing was something. I’m going for dinner. To be or Baker?

Your sweet 221b.

_[This was deciphered by our team using skip code. When decrypted, it reads as follows:_

I wait at Oxford Street. Was going to Baker 221b.]

_19:58_

Code Amber.

_19:59_

Abort mission. Code Baltimore in action. Amber turned off. Be there in twenty or don’t bother showing. Bring her.

 

**_{The record shows severe burn marks and water damage. Tampering evident. Records of Echo end here}_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the slight hiatus in posting but I hope I'm forgiven for that! I appreciate all comments and kudos you leave on this piece of work.  
> Regular updates should resume soon!


	5. Martha Hudson- Part 1

Sherlock wakes me by slamming the front door.  
The first thought I have after being rudely interrupted from sleep is ‘where are my soothers?’, but that is quickly chased by ‘where’s John?’  
John never lets Sherlock slam the door after midnight. Not once in their whole tenancy have they disobeyed this particular rule. They’ve had pets, clients, women, men and all sorts of gruesome, probably illegal experiments in that flat, but not ever have they slammed the door.   
Oh dear. Either they’ve had a particularly bad domestic, and John didn’t take the same cab as Sherlock back from one of their detective cases, or Sherlock is being grumpy. I do hope he doesn’t start shooting the wall again. I don’t want to get any more complaints from 220 Baker Street ever again.  
On second thoughts, I’d better make sure he doesn’t start shooting the wall again. He may be a genius, but it doesn’t take that much brainpower to work out that your poor old landlady might prefer her walls intact.

Sherlock’s lanky frame, is lying sprawled across two chairs, his and what used to be John’s. I recall John tried to ‘fatten him up’ when he still lived here, but John’s moved out, and Sherlock stopped eating.  
“Mrs. Hudson, pray do tell me that John’s been here.”  
I frown and shake my head. “I’m afraid not, dear. I thought he was with you?”  
Sherlock shuts his eyes, and I realize that’s my cue to turn the kettle on. He sighs, and I open the cupboard, taking out a plain cream-colored mug. On second thoughts, the red one will do just fine.  
The chairs creak as Sherlock sits up.  
“In that case, I’m afraid John’s been kidnapped.”  
I drop the red mug, and it shatters on the floor.  
“Kidnapped!”  
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, kidnapped. At least, he hasn’t turned up at our designated meeting place and hasn’t been replying to texts.”  
I start to pick up the shards, wincing as I feel my back crack painfully while bending over.  
“Oh, dear…Have you talked to that DI fellow of yours, Greg? I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”  
Sherlock turns to me, puzzled. “Greg? Don’t you mean Gavin?”  
I sigh and lean against the counter, concerned.  
“What did he say? Are they doing anything about it?”  
Just as I’m picking up the last piece, he jumps up and startles me. Dearie me, I have to start all over again.  
“That’s the thing, Mrs. Hudson, they’re not! Lestrade hasn’t even put John up as a missing person!”  
“Oh, Sherlock. I’m sure they’ll figure out something.”  
He faces me and grabs my shoulders. To an outsider, this gesture would’ve looked threatening, but I know better. He averts his gaze, a shudder running through his body in what appears to be a sob. I pull him into a hug and he stays still for about a microsecond before he jerks away awkwardly.  
“Mrs. Hudson. I have to go.”  
“But- Sherlock!”   
And he’s out the door, his big black coat flowing out behind him like a cape.  
At least I don’t have to worry about him shooting walls. Unfortunately, my list of things to worry about has tripled.  
I pick up my phone and dial Mary’s number. Maybe she’ll know where her husband is.


	6. Greg Lestrade-Part 1

Sherlock crashes into my office, just as I’m about to take my first sip of tea.

Instead, I spill it down my front. I hiss in pain.

Sometimes, I really hate this bugger. Today, however, is not a day I am allowed to be annoyed with him- he’s on a case, and the more he’s annoyed, the less he lets us on.

“Lestrade, a moment.”

I really don’t want to find him bleeding out in some alley, so I oblige.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

He swallows, eyes glued to his feet. His hands are shaking slightly, although that could be because he’s squeezing them into fists. He looks up, eyes glistening with rage, with fear.

“I’ve lost John.”

I spit out my tea in an almost cartoon-like fashion.

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

He appears by my desk instantly, grabs me by the collar and lifts me from my chair. His voice is razor-sharp, cutting, and feral.

“It means that, Lestrade, someone fucking kidnapped him. Someone who disappeared without so much as a trace. And what does ‘disappear without a trace’ say to you?”

My blood runs cold. John? Gone? It is my turn to swallow.

“It means you have nothing to go on.”

He is silent. I clear my throat. 

“Put me down, please, or I’ll call Donovan.”

As soon as I finish speaking, he collapses in a sprawl, all-over-my-desk type reeking of despair. Not a good sign.

Somebody broke Sherlock.

And as always, it’s my job to fix things. So I proceed to ask the usual questions.

“How do you know he’s missing?”

Sherlock sits up on my desk.

“He didn’t text me back after I texted him thirty-four times.”

I’m about ready to laugh. Here I was, worried about my mate John, when this fucker tells me all he has to go on is a couple (well, thirty four) unanswered messages…Blooming hell.

“Sherlock, you do realize you sound a bit… ridiculous?”

He shoots up faster than humanly possible. This guy could’ve be a world champion gymnast if he wanted to be, I swear.

“You don’t understand what I’m saying, are you? He _always_ texts me back, especially if it’s about a case.”

I shrug, an unsettling feeling building up.

“Maybe he didn’t want to go on…” I leave the sentence unfinished. Who am I kidding; John was worse than Sherlock when it came to cases. Forever running off with his best friend, as if they weren’t inseparable enough.  At least, they were, before “The Fall”.

Sherlock is staring at me from across the room in an I-told-you-so manner.

“Precisely, Graham, you’re finally keeping up.” He says it in an off-hand manner, with a smirk plastered to his face, but even a sleep-deprived DI like me can see he’s in pieces, God help me.

“How long” I asked him.

“How long what?”

I turn to him.

“How long has he been gone?”

He freezes, calculating.

“About seven hours. I last saw him with Mary on the rooftop of ‘La plaque du papier’.”

I nod, noting it down.

“Hummm. What circumstances brought you there?”

His eyes turn downwards. He’s staring at his shoes again. I sigh.

“C’mon Sherlock, I know you don’t like rooftops. I’m asking you a standard question. The more we know, the faster we could find him.”

“…He invited me. Mary appeared slightly later. He didn’t tell me she was coming; I felt like a third wheel, I left.”

“Right. You have taken Mary into consideration, right?”

He grimaces as if the name was bitter.

“Mary texted me, saying John went home. She said she stayed on later for a book club meeting that was happening.”

My damp shirt is sticking to my chest. It’s cold, and very uncomfortable. However, I have important matters at hand.

“I gather you’ve checked the register of the club?”

Sherlock swears in German and starts pacing, spitting out words.

“I’ve checked, George. Her name is on. She went to the damn meeting, she stayed all through it. I checked their flat. Nothing. No signs of a break-in, no signs of, well, anything. It looked just like a “normal, happy, family” lived there.

I checked Bart’s. I even got bloody _Mycroft_ to check her phone- no strange numbers on it, all on the system, all tracked. She’s clean. She’s fucking clean, Lestrade.”

“Uh-huh. And that makes you angry because…?”

His mouth shuts with an audible click. He turns away from me, walking up to the window.

“…one less lead. That’s, uh, why.”

I wipe my brow with a napkin left over from a pastry I had for lunch.

“Listen, Sherlock. I can’t report him as a missing person just yet, because it hasn’t been twenty four hours. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Sherlock looks at me, grief-stricken. Oh, bugger this. I can’t let him down. He’s never been like this before. I sigh wearily.

“…What I can, though, is let you have a ‘look’ at all the CCTV records we have from the last five days. Just don’t screw anything up. And be nice to Molly. For some reason, she asked me for restaurant footage today, something to do with a body she received today.  She thinks the person may have died due to suffocation, in reaction to chilies.  Molly what to classify it as a murder.Whatever the reason she has, she’s down there today.”

Sherlock nearly hugs me. He looks like he’s about to, but he turns on his heel and runs out as suddenly as he came in.

I start packing up again, but then I realize, and mentally curse myself.

I can’t leave now, end of shift or no end of shift. This is my friend who’s missing here.

Unfortunately, even the great Sherlock Holmes is stumped.

I remember something and pick up my phone. I smile to myself.

Someone owes me a favor, and they might be just the ticket.


	7. Molly Hooper- Part 1

...And that’s the last of the computers. There. All finished.

It’s a pretty hard job, this. Not many people volunteer for it, which is why I’m usually down in the morgue alone. And sometimes, the realization that yes, these people were alive less than a week ago hits me.

Whenever I feel especially ‘aware’, I say there’s been an unusual death. The pretext that I need CCTV footage always works- this is the largest storage facility except for the government CCTV bank (i.e. Mycroft’s personal collection).

The only downside is that my plan occasionally backfires. Usually Greg leaves me be in the darkness of the camera room, but occasionally he sends Sherlock to ‘have a look at that case you had, Molly, he’s sure to help’.

I know I shouldn’t be complaining, but I still sigh in annoyance whenever I notice the tell-tale signs of the detective: thundering footsteps down the stairs, swirling of his belstaff, overexcited babbling about corpses.

The last of the computers finishes shutting down. Good. I can go home, maybe even get a cab with Greg if his shift is ending now-

Sherlock burst through the door, pushes me out of the way, and presses every ‘on’ button in his vicinity.

“Sherlock, I was just about to go if you would-”

“Shut up, Molly. This is a matter of tremendous importance.”

I roll my eyes. Trust Sherlock to burst in at an ungodly hour of the night to check up on someone who is, most probably, dead…or a serial killer. Or both, knowing the crazy schemes people come up with these days.

I look down at Sherlock’s hands. They’re moving all over the keyboard, typing clumsily, not at all like he usually types. They’re shaking, I note.

“Couldn’t you have taken John with you, instead of me having to watch over Greg’s precious evidence?”

He falters, staring at the computer screen. We’re both bathed in a green light of night vision camera footage when he clears his throat and speaks.

“I’ve lost John.”

Okay, now this has gone too far. I’m tired, stink of disinfectant, my cats miss me and I’m supposed to be trying to hit it off with Greg.

Instead, I’m stuck with my old crush in an underground room while he’s spouting rubbish.

“What do you mean, you’ve lost John? Wasn’t he with you all day?”

   He turns to me, bristling with anger.

“Yes, Molly, we went around London all day and I’m just pretending he’s been kidnapped for the fun of it. After all, I always play jokes on my many friends. Isn’t this fun?”

I blink, confused.

“Why is everyone around me an imbecile? And they say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit…”

“So wait. You mean you actually don’t know where he is?”

He lifts his hands up to his brows in total defeat.

“I do not know where John is, therefore I came here to have a look at footage. Now if you’d just _leave_.”

I raise my eyebrows, but pick up my bag and open the door. The fluorescent lighting of the corridor blinds me.

Honestly, some people have no concept of manners.

I walk past empty offices, peering inside. No signs of Greg. He’s probably left.

“Molly!”

It’s Lestrade. He’s running up to me, a fistful of papers in hand. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious all over again. Damn it.

“Hey Greg” I wave meekly, cursing myself for it.  

“Molly. Good to see you. I take you let Sherlock in?”

He’s frowning, concerned.

“Yeah, I did. What’s up with him?”

Lestrade tilts his head.

“Didn’t he tell you? That man needs to work on his communication skills. Bloody hell.”

 “What is it?”

“John’s been kidnapped, but so far, no clues. Sherlock’s in pieces, and this time I think it might be out of concern for John rather than the lack of evidence. I’ve never seen him so shaken up; I thought he’d strangle me there and then.”

I swallow. Sure, I’ve seen Lestrade in action, and he’s pretty scary. But Sherlock…

“Are you alright?”

He regards me with a lopsided grin, but his eyes are sad.

“Yeah.Kinda worried for m’mate, y’know. Those idiots get kidnapped more often than anyone out of the entire Scotland Yard, but damn, they’re supposed to go together. Makes our job easier when we know they’re keeping each other safe. Dunno what Sherlock’s gonna do if John doesn’t-”

He looks down, silent. I nudge him softly.

“Come on, Greg. It hasn’t even been twenty four hours yet, has it?”

He rubs his temples. “Yeah, I guess.”

“See? They’ll be fine. Remember the time when we thought they disappeared off the face of the earth but it turned out they went tracking the criminal to Malaysia?” I speak evenly, carefully.

“Y-yeah. That was one hell of a mystery.”

I smile at him. “And remember that one when John dragged me out of the morgue to live in the sewers for a few days, because Sherlock needed a female ‘volunteer’ to recreate the conditions of the Bradshaw Palace?”

“Bloomin’ heck, that one had us stumped… Hang on; is that how he solved it?”

I nod. “Yep.”

He turns to me, an expression of mild horror on his face.

“So when you texted me saying you were going to be away for a few days- you weren’t going round to your aunts? If you’d have told me, I would’ve organized someone from the team to come pick you up. Jeez, I’m sorry.”

“Not at all” I shrug. “Take into consideration I still had a crazy crush on Sherlock back then-”

He holds up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!!Wait!!  What??? Did he never tell you, he’s not interested in women?”

I face palm so hard Greg nearly falls over himself to catch me. “That explains so much! God, I was _stupid_ -”

Greg starts to laugh, and I’m laughing too. It’s gone two A.M., and we’re in the middle of an empty office laughing while our live-in gay sociopath detective rifles through files downstairs-

John. John’s missing.

I stop laughing, and Greg’s laughter fizzles out. (I suddenly find myself wondering if this is how it feels to laugh at crime scenes- feeling guilty, yet loving it?) We smile apologetically, yet fondly at one another as I break the silence.

“I should get going, but I’ll be back tomorrow to help. Bart’s giving me a day off.”

He nods. “I’ll see you then.”

 

I walk out of NSY with a spring in my step, but worry in my heart.

John, wherever you are, come back. Sherlock needs you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the break in posting! I'll be going to France for a couple of weeks, so don't expect miracles :P  
> Thanks yet again to the wonderful Callasandra for putting up with me :)


	8. Sebastian Moran- Part 1

Allie (aka Mary) has the worst timing on earth.

There have been times when she would be spot on, everything turning like clockwork, running slickly and smoothly along a ready-made path.

And then there are times like this.

A person kidnapped, with no-one to guard them, because somebody decided to take matters in their own hands, Aleksandra on a caffeine low, and the Boss acting all cranky, pretending I didn’t tell him not to drink that much Laphroaig 18yo Scotch last night.

Thus the glory of the world passes. I’m currently on a loud, Harley, bike in central London; drawing enough attention to myself as it is, being half-dressed and tattooed. It seems public dress code differ during the day, then after dark. The public on the streets, take me for a gang member, and they’re not far off from the truth.

My phone roars out like a Siberian Tiger. Damn, Jim’s been messing around with my phone’s sound effects. Yeah, yeah, I get it, I’m Tiger, for both of my lovers.

The phone does it again.

I read the messages at the traffic lights.

 

_Tiger, I’m gonna be a bit late, stopping for more caffeine._

_Want anything? ~Koshka_

For many people, the rule is ‘Food before dudes’. For my girlfriend, it’s ‘Caffeine over murder’.

As I said, Allie has the worst timing on earth.

I arrive at Bond Street, park my bike on a double yellow line, and lean against a lamppost; desperately trying to fit a shirt over my head. It’s too small and too stiff.

Fuck. I took Jim’s by accident. I guess that’s what happens when you get woken up by a phone call at one in the fucking morning asking me to ‘get your lazy ass up and get me an ice pack’. I don’t see why Jim had to call me; I was literally right across the room from where he passed out.

Having to call Ms. Anasenko four times definitely didn’t help, and being harassed by one of my henchmen was a moodkiller, even though I got to threaten him with my newest toy.

I freaking love London at night.

It’s only been a few hours since the sun set, and Johnny boy (as Boss calls him) was kidnapped. The phone call was annoying, but I was only reminded of yester- _today’s_ (I keep on forgetting it’s nearly dawn) plans when an alarm on my phone that read ‘kdknap’ went off.

 I’m pretty sure it should’ve read ‘kidnap’, but drinking with your boss/annoying boyfriend for half the afternoon does things to your eyesight.

I’m a sniper who needs phone alarms to remember who I’m supposed to kill, maim, or drag away to some basement. If that doesn’t speak about my personality; (forgetting the whole ‘sniper’ business), I don’t know what does.

I look up at the lamppost. It’s annoyingly bright.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around to face Aleksandra.

“Hey Kotik. I got you a slightly suspicious, but highly caffeinated, energy drink. You didn’t sleep much.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Allie had always been nearly as capable as Jim on deducing people, and I guess my appearance didn’t help much either. Not only, do the bags under my eyes look like I went swimming with shitty mascara, but Jim’s shirt is the wrong way.

“Thanks, darlin’. Took you long enough to get here. What happened to five minutes?”

“Bad coffee and three a.m. happened. C’mon, we have a prisoner to interrogate.”

I manage a smile and kiss her. I’m pretty sure energy drinks taste bad, but right now, I’m dead on my feet.

“That we do. Lead the way, Allie.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

She has hair falling over her eyes, and the remnants of makeup from yesterday evening on her face- a cheap yet quite nice brand that fits the picture of Mary Watson.

She looks ethereal in the fluorescent light, hair coming just over her shoulders. The smudges under her eyes radiate a feral type of beauty- exactly what Aleksandra is.

She yawns and turns to me. “Come on, Kitty. We’ll never get there before daybreak if you don’t stop staring.”

I feel heat come to my cheeks. “Right. Get on the bike, and give me directions.”

I climb on and start the motor, Allie fitting in neatly behind me. Her head rests on my shoulder as she talks. The wind sweeps through her hair, giving it a mane-like quality and I sure am glad she’s not the one driving or I wouldn’t be able to see. 

“How’s Jim?”

Grimacing, I answer. “Hung-over. It’s not his style to drink.”

She hums in response.

“He woke me up at one in the bloody morning because he wanted an ice pack.”

“That’s nice. I haven’t slept in three days. You’re a whiny baby. Left turn here.”

Her accent, however slight, shows through the last few syllables. I roll my eyes and turn as she asks me to.

“Gee, you’re a big help. At least you don’t have to play nurse to a criminal mastermind as he rummages through your weapon collection. He’s your boyfriend too, you know.”

“I’m _sorry_ that you and Jim decided it was time to marry me off because you needed someone to get close to Sherlock! It wasn’t _my_ choice to move out. After all, what better way to get to that detective than through the guy he’s been pining for, for years?!”

I take my hands off the steering wheel in defeat and the motorcycle tilts alarmingly. Allie quickly shifts to balance.

“Point taken; I’m a whiny baby and stuff. Okay, where to now, oh great sufferer of much torment?”

 “Right turn, then straight ahead; I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“’Kay.”

I turn the bike again and we pull up in front of a small, family house. To the untrained eye, it would look like a normal home, one you’d expect a bunch of kids and a mummy and daddy to live in.

If someone decided to move a little bit closer, they would’ve noticed the curtains. Curtains that are dark and heavy, and always drawn shut.  The type of curtains that would be ideal for hiding secrets from outsiders…or covering steel bars on windows.

If they had good eyesight, maybe they’d even notice cameras. All over the front porch, covering the back entrance, on the trees to keep watch on the side windows. This unfortunate soul would travel further up the garden path, further, further.

And if that poor, curious bastard went up all the way up the path, he wouldn’t notice the trip wire until it was too late. Untraceable neurotoxins would be injected into his body. The person would be dead. I smile. Just the trick for door-to-door salesmen, police officers and our very own rescue team that will no wonder appear before long. I turn to Allie, but she’s preoccupied with her phone.

“Allie, time’s up. We need to go.”

She doesn’t reply. I shuffle forward on the bike seat and unclip my gun from the metal body.

“Sebastian! Stop getting lost inside that empty head of yours and help me with the bike!”

Allie is leaning over my head, dangling nearly upside-down.

“Jesus Christ, don’t do that to me while I have a gun. Fine. Let’s move the bike.”

She grins. “And then… John Watson!”

“Then John Watson.” I agree.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the hiatus again. It's truly not my fault- writer's block is a pain in the arse and then blasted exams again.  
> Thanking my wonderful Callasandra for virtue and patience with my work!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the amazing Callasandra for being a wonderful beta and helping me write this! Feedback appreciated :3


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